The White Gauntlet

“Have patience! Very likely I may be able to assist you,” interrupted Scarthe, rising to take his departure. “I’ve something in my mind will just suit, I think. But it requires a little reflection – and – some preliminary steps that must be taken elsewhere. I shall return here to-night, after sunset. Meanwhile, stay at home; or, if you go abroad, keep your tongue behind your teeth. Not a word to any one of what has passed between us. Take another pull at the flask, to keep up your spirits. Now, Walford, good day to you!”

Having pronounced these parting words, the officer walked out of the hut; and, returning to his horse, leaped lightly into the saddle, and rode off – followed by his attendant Withers.

He did not communicate to the latter aught of what had transpired between him and the woodman. The muttered words that escaped him, as he trotted off among the trees, were spoken in a slow, measured soliloquy.

“No doubt one of the very meetings of which his Majesty has spoken so opportunely in his despatch? Richard Scarthe shall make one at this midnight assembly – uninvited though he be. Ah! if I can only find a fair opportunity to play eavesdropper, I promise Master Holtspur a more substantial dwelling than he now inhabits! Ho! have no fear, kind King Carolus! Right willingly shall I play the spy! Ha! ha! ha!”

Elated by the high hope with which his new-gained knowledge had inspired him, he gave the spur to his grey, while Wapsey’s Wood gave back the echoes of his joyous laughter.

Volume Two – Chapter Nine

It was Michaelmas night over merry England; but at that late hour when the rustic – weary with the revels incidental to the day – had retired to rest and dream. In other words, it was midnight.

Though at a season of the year when a clear sky might be expected, the night in question chanced to be an exception. The canopy of bright blue, usually smiling over the Chiltern Hills, was obscured by black cumulus clouds, that hung in motionless masses – completely shrouding the firmament. Not a ray of light, from either moon or stars, was shed upon the earth; and the narrow bridle-path, as well as the wider highway, could with difficulty be discerned under the hoof of the traveller’s horse.

Notwithstanding the almost complete opacity of the darkness, it was not continuous. Gleams of lightning at intervals flashed over the sward; or, in fitful coruscation, illumined the deep arcades of the forest – the beeches, for a moment, appearing burnished by the blaze. Though not a breath of air stirred among the trees, nor a drop of rain had as yet fallen upon their leaves, those three sure foretellers of the storm – clouds, lightning, and thunder – betokened its proximity. It was such a night as a traveller would have sought shelter at the nearest inn, and stayed under its roof, unless urged upon an errand of more than ordinary importance. Despite the darkness of the paths, and the lateness of the hour – despite the tempest surely threatening in the sky – some such errand had tempted forth at least two travellers on that very night.

As Marion Wade and Lora Lovelace sate conversing in their chamber, on the eve of retiring to rest, two horsemen, heavily cloaked, might have been been passing out from under the windows, and heading towards the high-road, as if bent upon a journey.

It was Marion’s sleeping apartment, that was occupied by the brace of beautiful maidens – whose intention it was to share the same couch.

It had not been their habit to do so: for each had her separate chamber. But an event had occurred making it desirable that, on that particular night, they should depart from their usual custom. Lora required the confidence of her cousin – older than herself – and her counsel, as well – in a matter so serious as to demand the privacy of a sleeping apartment.

Indeed, two events had happened to her on the day preceding, both of which called for the interposition of a friend. They were matters too weighty to be borne by a single bosom.

They were somewhat similar in character – if not altogether so: both being avowals of love, ending in offers of marriage.

There was, however, a considerable dissimilarity in the individuals from whom the tender declarations had proceeded. One was her own cousin – Walter Wade – the other, it is scarce necessary to say, being Cornet Stubbs.

Lora had not hesitated as to the reply she should make to either. It was not for this she was seeking the counsel of her cousin. The answers had been given frankly and freely – on the same instant as the asking. To Walter an affirmative; to Stubbs a negative, if not indignant, at least final and emphatic.

That point had been settled before the sun went down; and Marion’s advice was only sought in order that the little Lora – her junior in years, as well as womanly experience – might become better acquainted with the details relating to that most important ceremony of a woman’s life – the nuptial.

Alas, for Lora; her cousin proved but a poor counsellor. Instead of being able to give advice, Marion needed rather to receive it; and it was from a vague hope, that Lora might suggest some scheme to alleviate her own unpleasant reflections, that she had so gladly listened to the proposal of their passing the night together.

What had occurred to disquiet the thoughts of Marion Wade?

Nothing – at least nothing but what is known already; and from that, some may think she should have been very happy. She had met the man she loved – had received from his own lips the assurance that her love was reciprocated – had heard it in passionate speech, sealed and confirmed by a fervent kiss, and a close rapturous embrace.

What more wanted she to confirm her in the supremest happiness that can be enjoyed – outside the limits of Elysium?

And yet Marion Wade was far from being happy!

What was the cause of her disquietude?

Had aught arisen to make her jealous? Did she doubt the fidelity of her lover?

A simple negative will serve as the answer to both questions.

She felt neither jealousy, nor doubt. The mind of Marion Wade was not easily swayed by such influences. Partly from a sense of self rectitude; partly from a knowledge of her own beauty – for she could not help knowing that she was beautiful – and partly, perhaps, from an instinctive consciousness of the power consequent on such a possession – hers was not a love to succumb readily to suspicion. Previous to that interview with her lover – the first and last properly deserving the name – she had yielded a little to this unpleasant emotion. But that was while she was still uncertain of Holtspur’s love – before she had heard it declared by himself – before she had listened to his vows plighted in words, in all the earnestness of eternal truth.

Since that hour no doubt had occurred to her mind. Suspicion she would have scorned as a guilty thing. She had given her own heart away – her heart and soul – wholly, and without reserve; and she had no other belief than that she had received the heart of Henry Holtspur in return.

Her unhappiness sprang from a different cause – or rather causes: for she had three sources of disquietude.

The first was a consciousness of having acted wrongly – of having failed in filial duty; and to a parent whose generous indulgence caused the dereliction to be all the more keenly felt.

The second was a sense of having transgressed the laws of social life – the unwritten, but well understood statutes of that high-class society, in which the Wades had lived, and moved, since the Conquest – and in all likelihood long before that hackneyed era of historic celebrity.

To have challenged the acquaintance of a stranger – perhaps an adventurer – perhaps a vagabond – ah! more than challenged his acquaintance – provoked the most powerful passion of his soul —thrown down the gauntlet to him– token of love as of war – when did ever Wade – a female Wade – commit such an indiscretion?

It was a bold act – even for the bold and beautiful Marion. No wonder it was succeeded by an arrière pensée, slightly unpleasant.

These two causes of her discomfort were definite – though perhaps least regarded.

There was a third, as we have said; which, though more vague, was the one that gave her the greatest uneasiness. It pointed to peril – the peril of her lover.

The daughter of Sir Marmaduke Wade was not indifferent to the events of the time – nor yet to its sentiments. Though separated from the Court – and well that she was so – she was not ignorant of its trickery and corruption. In the elevated circle, by which she was surrounded, these were but the topics of daily discourse; and from the moderate, yet liberal, views held by her father, she had frequent opportunities of hearing both sides of the question. A soul highly gifted as hers – could not fail to discern the truth; and, long before that time, she had imbibed a love for true liberty in its republican form – a loathing for the effete freedom to be enjoyed under the rule of a king. In political light she was far in advance of her father; and more than once had her counsel guided his wavering resolves; influencing him – perhaps, even more than the late outrage, of which he had been the object – to that determination to which he had at last yielded himself; to declare for the Parliament and People.

Marion had been gratified by the resolve – joyed to see her father surrendering to the exigencies of the times, and becoming one of the popular party, that had long owned her admiration.

A heart thus attuned could not fail to perceive in Henry Holtspur its hero – its immaculate idol; and such to the mind of Marion Wade did he seem. Differing from all the men she had ever known – unlike them in motives, action, and aspect – in joys and griefs, passions and powers – contrasting with those crawling sycophants – pseudo-cavaliers who wore long love-locks, and prated eternally of Court and King – in him she beheld the type of a heroic man, worthy of a woman’s love – a woman’s worship!

She saw, and worshipped!

Notwithstanding the fervour of her admiration, she did not believe him immortal; nor yet invulnerable. He was liable to the laws of humanity – not its frailties, thought she, but its dangers.

She suspected that his life was in peril. She suspected it, from the rumours, that from time to time had reached her – of his bold, almost reckless, bearing, on matters inimical to the Court. Only in whispers had she heard these reports – previous to the day of the fête in her father’s park; but then had she listened to that loud proclamation from his own lips, when charging upon Scarthe, he had cried out “For the people!”

She loved him for that speech; but she had done so even before hearing it; and she could not love him more.

“Cousin Lora!” said she, while both were in the act of disrobing, “you ought to be very happy. What a fortunate little creature you are!”

“Why, Marion!”

“To be admired by so many; and especially by the man you yourself admire.”

“Dear me! If that be all, I am contented. So should you, Marion, for the same reason. If I’m admired by many, all the world pays homage to you. For my part, I don’t want the world to be in love with me – only one.”

“And that’s Walter. Well, I think you’re right, coz. Like you, I should never care to be a coquette. One heart well satisfies me – one lover.”

“And that’s Henry Holtspur.”

“You know too much, child, for me to deny it.”

“But why should I be happier than you? You’ve your cavalier as well as I. He loves you, no doubt, as much as Walter does me; and you love him – I dare say, though I can’t be certain of that – as much as I love Walter. What then, Marion?”

“Ah, Lora! your lover is sure – safe – certain to become yours for life. Mine is doubtful, and in danger.”